


There's a Saying

by PancakethePikachu



Category: J3NNY_4ND_P4LS
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23132608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PancakethePikachu/pseuds/PancakethePikachu
Summary: This was for fun using J3NNY's OCs Frank and Billy because I don't ever pay attention in class pffIf you don't know J3NNY_4ND_P4LS on Twitter/Instagram/wherever else they live, search them out cuz they're one talented OC creator/artist and adorable with the way they scream about everything- no we aren't friends I just adore their work <3Additional warning that this work contains allusions to child kidnapping, child abuse, self-harm, murder, cannibalism, and suicide- if you are uncomfortable with that sort of material please click away.
Relationships: Frank & Billy
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	There's a Saying

“The stories are written by the victors.” That’s how the saying goes. 

“Villains aren’t born, they’re made.” That’s how the saying goes. 

He could still feel it within the palm of his hand, although it was no longer there. Warm and wet, traveling the grooves of his hand like water flowing down the river that it carved after years of erosion. The moment he lifted it up, grey eyes examined the limb. There was nothing. 

He brought it to his lips, tasting a faint tinge of iron as the skin made contact with his tongue. A shiver of delight sparked down his spine at that. 

“Life isn’t black and white.” That’s how the saying goes. 

“Life isn’t a straight path.” That’s how the saying goes. 

Frank would argue that the sayings are wrong. There were red and blue and green and brown, but they were simply black and white if stripped of all pigment. There were winding dirt paths and upward climbs on cliffs, but they were all removed to create a single, flat, straight road. 

“The stories are written by the victors.” Yeah. Perhaps. That’s how the saying goes. Frank lost contact with his brother years ago. When that incident happened. When she left him. Disappeared. Gone. 

Taken. 

Frank growled and threw a knife across the room, hearing it thunk into the wall, burrowed into the wood. The house groaned, and began to close around him in complaint. Closer and closer the walls came in, and darker and darker the room became. Whispers. Cries. The call of children begging to be set free. 

Except today there were no children. 

“Villains aren’t born. They’re made.” That’s how the saying goes. That one’s true. Perhaps in another world, Frank grew up just fine. 

Fine?

No. He was fine. He is fine. Now. 

He had a roof above his head, food to put on the table, and no fear whatsoever. No. There was no fear. 

Frank is fearless. 

“Billy?” He calls out, leaving the room vacant and the knife in the wall. “Billy dear, where are you?” He sings, spirits lifted at the thought of his son. 

Well. Son was putting it lovingly. In truth- he was not. 

The child was in his room. Well, what Frank called his room- to the child, it was a prison. A time-out box for those who were naughty. Billy strayed too far from home and now he was in the darkest corner, never allowed to turn around and see the light. Children were never obedient. Not unless they had something to fear. Billy had fear. 

“Billy?” Frank opens the door with his key. He didn’t want his precious son to run away when he wasn’t looking now. “Darling there you are! Are you hungry?”

“N-no…” Billy lies, his head bowed as he sat shackled to his bed. He had tried to escape. Frank wasn’t having any of it. “I-I… I’m n-not.”

The less he talked, the quicker things went. He learned that the hard way. 

In truth, he was starving. His stomach was eating itself, acid eroding the sturdy walls and fighting to intoxicate the rest of his body and fill his innards with deadly garbage. It was better than eating another human. It was better than when he ate his sister. 

“Alright dear, but let me know when you are! I’ll cook something for you right away!” Frank exclaims joyously, a large smile along his lips, dancing his sharpened teeth with glee. He never asked why his son was sad. He knew why. He didn’t care. 

Billy hugged his legs tighter to his chest, the chains clattering when he does so, and he closes his eyes- wishing for the umpteenth time that this was all just a nightmare. Just a little nightmare. It only succeeds in him becoming hyper aware that this was all far too real. 

“Life isn’t black and white.” That’s how the saying goes. Billy’s room was more than concrete walls and chains. It had painted light blue walls, carpet and toys. It had a soft, downy bed and large, standing cabinets. Dressers. Tables. A lamp. Some posters. Books and papers strewn about. It was an average kid’s room. Average. Except for the chains. Except for the bars that blocked the windows. Except for the blood that had dried up years ago and yet still reeked through the carpet and wood. This. This was black and white. This is a clear separation of evil and good. 

That’s how the saying goes. That’s how the saying will be. Villains. Black. White. Heroes. Motives. Perspectives. 

“I’m doing you a favor.” Frank would claim, dropping more mashed potatoes into Billy’s plate. “Your family were treating you horribly and you’re better here with me.”

Billy was fed all sorts of lies. He was fed toxins and corruption. He was fed with grief and pain. Although Frank attempted over and over to feed him affection- Billy never ate a single bite of it. 

You already know Frank’s story. You already know Billy’s story. Whether you yell at the screen for Billy to just corporate or cringe at the crimes Frank is committing, that will be your contorted perception. 

Frank smiles and dances, sitting down to teach Billy math and reading and writing. He possesses the good qualities of a father. Although he kidnaps and eats children, addicted to the taste of flesh, right down to the core- he is a good person. Right?

Billy utters quietly, not daring to look at Frank’s face. Stuttering and clunking, his legs braced with weakness that prevented him from running far. Although once he was bright and bubbly, chasing his friends around the courtyard, right down to the core- he is a bad person. Right?

“Billy,” Frank coos above the sizzling of the pan. “Dear, how much salt do you want on your bacon?”

“J-just a… l-little.” Billy whispers, unable to contain his temptations. At least today was normal food. Even if it was served by a man he wished he never knew. 

The braces that held his legs together clanked as Billy swung his legs slowly. He was still a child after all. 

“Alright!” Frank sings, turning off the stove and sliding the slices of meat onto the plate. As he continues preparing dinner, Billy plays with the hem of the shirt he now wore. Frank brought it home one day for him. Who knows where it came from. 

He eats quietly when Frank drops the food in front of him. At least today Frank provided him with a salad. Billy knew that Frank hated vegetables with a burning passion. 

Frank is going off about the usual while sitting across from him, his plate stacked high with potatoes and bacon strips. He had been out all day trying to capture more children, to no avail. 

“I passed a house that had a Funko POP! Is that what they’re called? Do you want one Billy?”

Billy shook his head, chewing slowly. He knew that eating quickly would make it seem like he was hungry, and so Frank would put more food on his plate. The last thing he wanted was more food. 

“How about a new pair of shoes?”

“It’s going to be cold soon, want more blankets for your room?”

“Does your lamp still work? I’ll get a new lightbulb if it doesn’t.”

All this coddling and cooing. Worry and distress. While charming to someone who knew not the circumstances that the two were in, Billy shook his head to each one, disgusted by the attention.

Death sounded more appealing. How Billy wished for it. 

There are sayings, that heroes are the ones that write the story, and they are the ones who determine the reputation of someone when they’re dead… or alive. Life isn’t as black and white, as they say. Villains are villains, and when you take Frank and set him next to someone like Jeffrey Dahmer, that’s exactly what you see. Villains. Black vs the White. 

“Do you understand that?” Frank asks, looking up from the math textbook and wondering Billy’s face. His son looked tired, with drooping eyelids and shagging features, Frank figured that was enough for today. He marks the book, picks up the papers and pencils and pens, and puts them away in one of the towering cabinets. They had been bolted to the ground. Billy had tried crushing himself with them before. 

Frank tucks Billy in, humming a small tune, giving a goodnight kiss to the child. Billy had stopped trying to prevent it. He still had the scars from his struggles before. 

“Goodnight.” Frank coos, closing the door. Billy only dares to move when he hears the lock click and the sound of keys clanking against each other fading off into the distance. 

Life isn’t black and white. That’s how the saying goes. Life isn’t a straight path. That’s how the saying goes. But as Billy rolls to his side and stares across the expanse of the room blankly, the once vibrate blues and greens and purples and yellows were washed away to black. His tired eyes stared at the white door. If the circumstances played in Billy’s favor, that door could be freedom, or Heaven’s gate. 

Billy allowed his eyes to close. 

He hoped the door would open for him one day.


End file.
